Auspicious
by TheWeightOfEmptiness
Summary: Greg Lestrade already had a lot on his plate dealing with his new "friend" Sherlock Holmes. He didn't expect to have to deal with Sherlock's brother too.
1. Beginning

It began, Greg Lestrade would later learn from John Watson, in the same way many of Mycroft's relationships began: in a warehouse and because of Sherlock.

The detective inspector had called Sherlock in for the second time that week for help on a particularly difficult case. Clearly difficult enough to require Sherlock more than once. But the two men were just getting to know each other—Greg getting used to being put down and then amazed by Sherlock's skills and Sherlock getting used to needing the presence of another person—so the delay was not questioned.

He supposed he should have been surprised when he walked away from the crime scene to see a discrete, black car parked on the sidewalk with it's door hanging open, but he wasn't. He should have been more surprised when a soft voice inside called out his name.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" The voice was soft but sure. It wasn't really a question, just posed that way to be polite.

"Yes?" When he said it, it was a question, but more out of confusion than doubt of his identity.

"Please get in the car." Greg scratched his right ear and looked around to see if anyone was watching. He didn't see anyone, but that meant nothing, he knew. He got in the car anyway.

The inside was just as discrete as the outside, all black leather and chrome. The woman sitting across from him sat quietly with her legs crossed at the ankle, looking almost blankly out the window.

"Where, may I ask, are we going?"

"A meeting." He answers were short, but not rude. _Precise_, thought Greg, _this whole set up is precise_.

"With?" Another question.

"An interested party." He was going to get no information from this woman, he could tell, but he could look out the window and watch the outskirts of London rush by. After ten or fifteen minutes of silence, the car stopped and the driver opened the door.

"He's waiting in there." She nodded her head to indicate a deserted warehouse with its door hanging open. Greg nodded silently and got out of the car. He nodded again to the driver and walked across the dirt toward the open door, straightening his suit. He ducked through the door, making sure to look in all directions before entering.

"Preparing for an ambush?" The voice floated out of the darkness like music in a dream, perfectly suited, but startling all the same.

"Maybe." Greg pushed his shoulders back and stood as tall as possible as he peered into the black. "Are you going to ambush me?"

"Assuredly not." Greg wasn't convinced. His eyes were starting to adjust, however, and he saw a single figure a ways in the distance. Tall and thin and leaning on a walking stick of some kind. There was confidence and a bit of arrogance in the way the man just stood, waiting for Greg to approach. And approach he did.

Greg put his hands on the back of the chair that had been set there for his benefit he was sure, though he had no intention of sitting, and looked into the man's face. It was round and soft, with creases of worry and late nights. Markings of squints in the corners of his eyes and exhaustion in the lines beneath.

"Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes." Greg snorted.

"Related to Sherlock?"

"According to the records, yes, though he will always try to deny it." He sounded a bit like Sherlock too, Greg had to admit. Not so much in the quality of voice, but in the tone of exasperated condescension.

"And you've kidnapped me because?"

"I believe you came willingly," Mycroft fiddled with his walking stick, which Greg could now recognize as an umbrella, before looking into the DI's face, "for which I thank you."

"Well, what's a bit of excitement when all I've got is murders and suicides?" Mycroft breathed decisively, a sound which from anyone else could almost be called a laugh, and smiled.

"Yes, well now you've got Sherlock's help on that."

"Guess so." There was an awkward silence as Greg stood looking at Mycroft, wondering what he could want, thinking of the worst possibilities.

"I was wondering if you would help me keep an eye on him." Another pause, shorter than the first. "I'd compensate you for your time, of course."

"You want to pay me to spy on the man?"

"Not spy, exactly, just keep me informed as to his… goings on." Mycroft had straightened his shoulders as if offended by the suggestion that his request was anything but honorable.

"Well, thanks for the offer, but I'll pass." Greg started to turn around and walk back to the car he hoped was waiting for him.

"Please let me know if you change your mind, Inspector." Greg turned back to face him.

"I won't." And he walked away. A voice trailed along behind him as he passed through the door into sunlight way too bright for London.

"We'll meet again, Gregory Lestrade," the voice said, "I'll promise you that."


	2. Pondering

When he left the warehouse and climbed back into the car—thankfully still waiting—Greg wondered why he had declined Mycroft's request so quickly. Yes, he had morals, but he also had debts and one of those was owed in pain to Sherlock.

He thought of his own family and whether he'd pay anyone to inform on them. No, he decided, but was that neglect on his part? Or respect? Did the tall, thin man in the warehouse truly care about his brother? Or did he revile him?

Greg sat silently during the ride to the Yard, where he asked to be taken, turning these thoughts around his mind. The memory—as well as the two men who figured in it—continued to cross his mind as he filled out paperwork, answered phones, and attended meetings, wandering away the remainder of his day.

By the time he returned to his flat, what had begun as an innocent thought had become a nagging at the back, sides, and forefront of Greg's mind. Who did this Mycroft Holmes think he was? And who was Sherlock? And what kind of family could produce two such unusual men? And was it the kind of family he wanted to get involved in?

He opened a beer and sat on his couch, flipping through channels and memories of the day. The case had been solved, by Sherlock, but it was the kind of gruesome story that stuck with you, days and weeks after being solved. Greg wished, not for the first time, that he had a friend, someone outside of work, he could go to, watch television and drink a beer with, talk about their days.

Most people had boyfriends, girlfriends, husbands or wives, but not Greg. He had dated a few people in the past, but most of the women quickly tired of his constant absence and the men were too often threatened by his high-adrenaline, high-powered job. Other times, it was the women who were threatened and the men who missed him, but it was always something and it was always Greg's fault. So he gave up.

"Maybe having someone to tell about work and dealing with Sherlock wouldn't be so bad," he said to the empty room and the buzzing television. He shrugged, finished his drink, and headed to bed, preparing for another day.

* * *

><p>In a different part of London, a different man was going through the same routine, thinking the same thoughts. As he pulled on his silk pajamas, Mycroft Holmes thought about his own day, typical to be sure. There was paperwork, there were meetings and conference calls. Then there was Greg Lestrade. Mycroft had, of course, researched the man when Sherlock first began his acquaintance with him. He had always been protective of his younger brother—overly so, he was aware and often reminded—but for the first time, this meeting seemed to overstep, to intrude.<p>

Why? What was so special about this detective that his presence made Mycroft's life seem so suddenly lonely? He knew no people who wouldn't accept money for information on him, though they had known him for years. Even his assistant Anthea was paid well for her silence.

What would it be like, Mycroft thought as he sat on the edge of his bed and pulled the cord to turn off his lamp, to have someone to keep your secrets with you?

* * *

><p>The day ended with both men keeping their secrets and their silence and falling asleep with each other's voices playing in their minds.<p> 


	3. Necessary

The next time Greg called Sherlock to a crime scene, a now familiar black car rolled up right behind him and stopped like a fan wanting to watch the consulting detective at work. Greg led Sherlock through the crime, showed him the details and the evidence and then handed him off to Anderson. Greg walked over to the car as shouts and insults began to echo from the pair he had left behind. He rapped a knuckle on the tinted window, which rolled down to reveal Mycroft's solemn face.

"You've come to watch the genius at work, Mr. Holmes?"

"Hardly. I could predict exactly what my _brother_ would do even if I were on the other side of the world. Which has happened, to be sure."

"Oh I wasn't talking about Sherlock." Mycroft cocked his head and looked at Greg, taking in his half smile and casual posture. Was he… flirting? Not one to back down from any confrontation, Mycroft ran his eyes down the DI's long frame, from silver hair to scuffed black shoes, and sniffed—unimpressed—not a reaction Gregory Lestrade was accustomed to receiving.

Lestrade's smile faltered, but only momentarily. He pursed his lips and straightened up. He was intrigued by this man, that was sure enough, but not so far gone he couldn't recognize a brush off.

"Right, Inspector. I actually came to see you." Greg raised his eyebrows. Maybe not a brush off. The car door opened and Mycroft stepped out, putting himself on equal footing with the DI.

"The genius at work." Greg mumbled as he stepped back from Mycroft and leaned against the car again. Mycroft sniffed again and Greg could see a small smile. "And what can I do for you?"

"I was wondering if you had given any more thought to my offer from the other day."

"Spying on Sherlock?"

"Helping me keep an eye on my brother."

"Right. No."

"You've given it no more thought? Or you refuse?"

"I refuse. I won't, won't inform on my—" Greg stumbled, what was Sherlock to him? An associate? A colleague? "I won't inform on my friend." Mycroft nodded.

"You are quick to name people as friends, Inspector Lestrade."

"Only when they're quick to make it necessary." Greg heard the defensiveness in his own voice and was surprised. Mycroft Holmes was already bringing out the fire in Greg—more than typically showed—but he couldn't tell if it was a good thing or a very, very dangerous one.

"I hope to not be a _negative_ influence on your relationship with Sherlock." Mycroft straightened his shoulders and lengthened his neck, giving off an impression of a disgruntled turtle. He also tightened his grip on the umbrella that Greg now assumed was glued to Mycroft's palm.

"Don't worry, Mr. Holmes," the detective crossed his arms in an effort to match Mycroft's imposing air, "my _relationship_ with Sherlock is in no danger from you." The whole conversation had escalated to a level of tension that turned Greg's stomach. He needed to do something about it so he quickly blurted the first snark that came to his mind. "Now Anderson," he indicated the officer currently yelling at Sherlock, He's the one I'm really worried about. Think he's going to kill your brother."

Mycroft's face broke into an easy smile that transformed his stern and detached face into something round and boyish. _Chagrined_, Lestrade thought, _he looks chagrined_. And he did. Chagrined at the image of his brother annoying someone besides Mycroft for once.

Lestrade put his hands in his pockets and toed at the gravel under his feet, kicking a few pebbles under Mycroft's car. He looked at Sherlock and Anderson, wondering how long it would really take before one of them got murdered.

"I should probably go back over and prevent another War of the Roses."

"I'm afraid as long as you are working with my brother, it will be necessary for me to check up on you, and your work, periodically." Mycroft adjusted his grip on his umbrella. Not glued then. "And you may find my input, helpful, as well." Greg thought he had never heard someone speak so carefully, as if every word was separated not by spaces, but commas, dashes, and periods.

"I'm sure I will, Mr. Holmes. Do you have a business card?"

Mycroft had already started slipping back into the car.

"I don't think you'll find that necessary, Inspector." The door closed and immediately the car started rolling away. Greg's eyebrows knitted together, lost by this last line. As he turned to walk over to the bickering colleagues he felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. When he pulled it out, he chuckled at the name printed across the screen.

_Mycroft Holmes – War of the Roses?_

Lestrade laughed. He would have thought there was no way Mycroft could've missed the history joke. he typed in a response and sent it.

Mycroft's phone beeped on the seat next to him.

_Gregory Lestrade – They both want to be king._

"But what do you want, Gregory?"


	4. Lunch

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who's added this story to their alerts/favorites; it means a lot to me. I'd love it if you would all review as well! I'm writing this for you as much as for me, so I'd LOVE to know what you're wanting! Enjoy.**

* * *

><p>What Greg wanted was to know how Mycroft had gotten his phone number into Greg's phone. He supposed it must not have been too hard to have him pickpocketed while he was preoccupied with the case, but he was still impressed. <em>Maybe<em>, he thought, _I'll be calling that number_. Greg smiled to himself as he tucked the phone back in his pocket and went to separate Anderson from Sherlock, who was already gloating about his apparently elegant solution.

* * *

><p>It wasn't even the end of the day before Greg found a reason to text Mycroft.<p>

_How did you manage to not kill Sherlock in his sleep? –GL_

He knew the text would probably be considered flirting, but he wasn't trying to hide the fact he was interested. He set his phone on the kitchen counter in his flat as he pulled ingredients for a sandwich out from his fridge. It buzzed at him right as he was pulling the bread from the toaster.

_He locked his bedroom door. –MH_

Greg laughed as he typed awkwardly, a slice of bread in his left hand.

_I'd think a locked door would be nothing to a Holmes. –GL_

By the time he'd finished making the sandwich he had another reply waiting.

_Ah, but not a Holmes-locked door. –MH_

Mycroft was being very friendly, Greg noticed as he licked mayonnaise off his pinky finger. Nicer than he would have assumed from a man with a personal assistant, a driver, a three piece suit, and Sherlock for a brother. Could he possibly be interested in Greg? The inspector wasn't vain—all the time—but he knew he wasn't ugly, and the police officer thing had always been enough to get him free drinks and the occasional warm body next to his in bed, but it was a lower class of man than Mycroft Holmes. He thought for a moment about risking a question, but decided to stall; he didn't want to prematurely involve himself in a Holmes he didn't need to. Sherlock was a handful.

_Then again_, he thought, _he did want to hear how Sherlock is getting on_. Greg realized he could pawn his interest off on Mycroft's for his brother, so he sent another text.

_Tomorrow, lunch? Talk about Sherlock –GL_

Nothing came for the next half an hour, but just as Greg was starting to worry and climbing into bed, his phone vibrated.

_Day after? I can have Anthea pick you up at the Yard and drop you back after? –MH_

Greg understood about the delay, but he wasn't keen on spending much more quiet time in the car with Anthea, so he responded,

_Meet me at the café down the street? I'd rather not be gone too long. –GL_

This gave him an out if the meeting went poorly and didn't leave him as powerless as Mycroft's plan would have. Moments later he had his answer.

_Lovely. I'll see you at noon. –MH_

* * *

><p>At a quarter to twelve, Greg left his desk and walked down to the café, hoping to pick a table and relax for a moment before Mycroft arrived. When he walked in, however, he saw that a table in a far back corner was already occupied by the man himself. Mycroft stood and extended his hand as Greg approached the table.<p>

"Inspector, good to see you again." They shook hands and sat down.

"Same to you, Mr. Holmes."

"Please, call me Mycroft."

"Only if you call me Greg. Or Gregory." Mycroft smiled and nodded.

"Gregory it is." They spent a few moments looking at their menus, then ordering salads and sandwiches. After he handed his menu to the waiter, Mycroft folded his hands on top of the table and looked right at Greg, who was drinking not-so-elegantly from his water glass. he set the cup down as soon as he saw Mycroft was staring at him. He wiped his mouth with the side of his hand and put his hands in his lap because he didn't want to be mirroring Mycroft exactly—when exactly did this become awkward?

"You wanted to talk about Sherlock then, Insp— Gregory." He tilted his head to the side as he spoke. Just slightly.

"Well, I thought if I'm going to be working with him and you I'd like to know who you are." Greg folded his arms in front of himself.

"What would you like to know?"

"I don't know, where are you from? What do you do? How long has Sherlock been a drug user? Is it serious?"

"You noticed."

"You don't have to be a Holmes to notice that. The man screams junkie."

"It's been five years. It's not serious—as serious as any drug problem can be. Mostly cocaine. Started when our father died. Refuses rehab, but hasn't gotten in too much trouble yet." Greg threw his hands in the air.

"I'm going to leave that alone. As long as he keeps doing what he does, I'll…" What would Greg do? He was a police officer after all. "I don't know what I'll do, but I'll leave him to you."

"Thank you."

The waiter set their food on the table and the started eating, talking between bites.

"So what do you do, Mycroft?"

"I work in the government."

"Doing?"

"Government work."

"Got it." Greg laughed a little and stuck his tongue into his cheek, an old habit he did when he knew he should stop asking questions.

"Did you always want to be a police officer?"

"Nope, wanted to be a dinosaur at one point." Now it was Mycroft's turn to laugh. Like the first time, his face transformed instantly into something boyish and vaguely angelic. Greg liked his face like that.

"Yes, I've always wanted to be a police officer. It's hard, but I love the work."

"I can tell." Mycroft looked into Greg's face. He was a good man, he could tell, except when he put his tongue in his cheek. Mycroft couldn't possibly know how to react to that.

"Did you always want to do _government work_?"

"I always wanted to take care of my brother."

"So you became everyone's Big Brother?" Mycroft turned his head again and raised an eyebrow. This was a different kind of transformation, Greg thought as he looked into Mycroft's partially lidded eyes. "Kidding!" Greg raised his hands in surrender, though he knew he'd say it again in an instant if he could make Mycroft pull that face again.

When the bill came, Greg picked it up quickly, realizing that Mycroft was probably the kind to always pay and wanting to distinguish himself from the rest. They walked together out of the restaurant and shook hands on the sidewalk.

"Thank you for lunch, Gregory. It was lovely." He put his other hand to Greg's, holding the detective's hand tightly. He looked straight into his eyes as he said it and for a moment, Greg thought he was about to get kissed. But Mycroft dropped his hands and the moment passed. "I'd love to share a meal again. Maybe you'd allow me to select the restaurant next time?"

"Absolutely." Greg put his hands in his pockets. "Next time it's all you."

They nodded goodbye and began walking in opposite directions: Greg back to work and Mycroft back to Anthea, sitting in the car the next street over. Greg didn't even have time to sit back down at his desk before his phone vibrated.

_How about tonight? –MH_


End file.
